


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by moonflowers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M, a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: Five times Steve is a hopeless romantic, and one time Billy reminds him he can be too.





	Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a disgusting amount of fluff, ridiculously soft, full on cliché. Hold on to your hats. Was also meant to be posted over the holidays, but I didn't have time, and the week of love seemed like the perfect occasion to dust it off and finish it. Doesn't necessarily fit with a particular prompt, so I'm just posting it today.
> 
> Very much inspired by, and title taken from, Queen's Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy.

1.

“You bring girls up here, Harrington?" 

“No," Steve said absently, not looking at him, eyes on the night sky above the quarry. "I usually took ‘em home.”

 _Took._ Past tense. Interesting. “I getcha," Billy said, and blew out a stream of smoke to watch it fade to nothing. "Better to fuck a chick in your swanky place, full of feather pillows and gold plated faucets and shit, than drive her up here and leave with her panties full of grit and pine needles. Real turn off."

Steve Harrington was probably too good for rolling around in the dirt anyway, no matter what Billy might've wished for in private. He'd made it his business to hear every rumour, every _word,_ ever said about Harrington at Hawkins High. From the chicks themselves, or through second hand trash talk in the locker room, bathroom stall graffiti. And the odd occasion he’d gotten worked up enough to ask Steve about one girl or another first hand, always careful to make it sound as though he was sniffing out a good chick to fuck rather than clutching for details of Steve's personal life. Even if things had ended badly between him and a girl, it seemed each one of 'em held onto some dumb, sickly sweet, fond memory of their dates with King Steve Harrington. 

”Something like that," Steve said. "And I don't have gold plated faucets man, Jesus.” 

Billy already had a hundred such dumb memories of his own that he turned over in his head when he couldn't sleep. A whole bunch from before he and Steve were even being civil with each other – him coralling the load of nerdy kids into his car, laughing with Byers and Wheeler at lunch, the flush of his chest in the showers after gym, the confused but genuine smile sent Billy's way when he'd leant him a pencil in Math. But there were even more from when they’d finally, tentatively, started talking. Mostly insults to start with, but with smiles, slaps on the shoulder, and shared cigarettes. Before it began to shift to something else, too-long looks and skirting around what Billy _really_ meant every time he called Steve a dumbass.

“Hargrove?” Steve spoke up to the dark sky stretched above them, scattered with stars, voice loud in the thick quiet of the night and cutting right through Billy's trip down memory lane.

“What, Harrington?” Billy said, laid out beside him and arms folded under his head. There were rocks digging into his back and his leather jacket was too thin for Indiana evenings.

“You wanna... would you let me take you out sometime?”

Billy froze, knew that the moment had finally come, the one where everything he’d both wished for and dreaded was about to drop right into his fuckin' lap. “We’re out right now.”

Steve snorted, and Billy felt everything between them shift and settle. “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah you know what I mean," Steve said, "or yeah you’ll go out with me?”

Billy turned his head to smile at him, found Steve's eyes already fixed on his face, waiting. “Both, Harrington.” He was going to find out for himself if Steve Harrington was every bit the romantic the girls of Hawkins High claimed him to be.

 

2.

“Steve?”

“Hey.” His voice crackled through the receiver.

“What’s wrong?” Billy said shortly, panic fluttering to sit heavy in his chest, where he tried to keep it from creeping up into his voice. “Max told me I had to call you.”

“Oh," Steve said in that slow way of talking he had sometimes, like he'd just woken up, and still needed a minute to blink the sleep away. "Nothing’s _wrong.”_

“What?” Billy’s panic rapidly fell away to make room for irritation and straight up disbelief. “Then why did you tell her to tell me to call you, dumbass?” Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’d been well on the way to freaking the fuck out.

“You said never to call your house in case your dad picked up, but I just uh..." Steve hesitated, Billy heard him swallow, take in another breath. "I really wanted to talk to you? So I radioed Max to get her to get you to call. Y'know. In case your dad was home.”

"He's not."

"Oh."

“Wait, let me get this right. You… wanted to talk to me?” Billy was tempted to hang up because that was _so fucking dumb._ He didn’t though. “What about?”

“Nothin' much," Steve said, a little sheepish. So he fucking should be, _Christ._ "I just missed you today, is all.” 

“Jesus Harrington, you’re such a sap," he said, although his face was warm and he couldn't quite stop himself from smiling. "The girls really fell for this, huh?” Annoyingly, Billy was falling for it too. 

“I guess.”

“I was thinkin’ about you too," he blurted out before he could get a handle on himself. 

“You were?” Steve sounded unflatteringly surprised. Billy probably deserved that.

“Uh huh.”

“Oh.”

The little bit awkward and little bit wonderful silence was then ruined, as Billy had known it would be, by the front door swinging open, Neil and Susan home from their dinner out. “Shit, my dad’s back. I gotta run.”

“Okay. Goodnight, baby,” Steve said, voice low and crackling over the shitty connection, and it made Billy fucking _tingle,_ like Steve had whispered the words up his spine.

“Goodnight.”

 

3.

Billy kinda hated Valentine’s day. He’d been called tacky himself more than once, but Valentine’s day was a whole other level of pink, sickly, heart shaped tackiness that made him want to hurl. It was all just so... _fake._ And Billy was a master of fuckin' faking it, but the holiday just never sat right with him. It hadn't exactly helped that he'd always known he could never hand over some shitty card and box of candy to a boy like he could a chick, and that he’d never receive anything in return from someone he actually _wanted_ to notice him. He normally swept the pile of cards he'd inevitably find stuffed at the bottom of his locker straight into the trash, was so used to feeling nothing but either hate or indifference at the sight of them. But his eye caught on familiar handwriting on a card at the top of the stack, the jolt of affection he felt at the sight of it leaving him stunned.

He picked it up, ignored the rest. It was… disgusting. The most lurid, love-heart spattered, cheesy holiday card he could have ever imagined. If anyone else in the world had dared give it to him, Billy may well have set it on fire, if he even considered it worth the attention. But he'd known who it was from before he'd even opened it up, the handwriting inside only confirming it. 

_Happy Valentine’s Day, baby._  
_I love you._  
_Hope you like the card._

What an asshole. 

“Nice card, Hargrove,” Steve appeared behind him out of nowhere in a cloud of expensive cologne and pale pink polo, and Billy struggled to hide his jump of surprise.

“I dunno,” he said once he’d recovered, watching Steve smirk, “I think it’s ugly as hell.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, it matches your shirt."

Steve hummed, reached over Billy’s shoulder to run a finger over his own carefully written words inside the card. “You might be right," he said gravely. "Only someone with terrible taste would chose this card.”

“The worst,” Billy agreed solemnly.

Steve snorted, cast a quick glance up and down the empty hall before he ducked to press a kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth. “Happy Valentine’s day, dickhead.”

Billy held him close for one tight, desperate, white hot moment, before shoving him gently away. “See you later, lover boy.” 

Steve smiled at him, big and dopey, and loped off down the hall to English class.

 

4.

Their dates were nothing like how things would be if Billy was taking out a girl. Well, they were in a sense; he probably would have taken a chick to the diner to start with too. But he definitely wouldn’t have sat across from her, wouldn’t have kept a careful distance as they ate their burgers. He probably wouldn’t have flicked a ketchup covered fry at her either, or gotten a slice of pickle thrown at himself in retaliation. Maybe wouldn't have bothered with the mascara. Instead, he’d have been plastered to her side, alternately making a show of peering down her shirt and looking like he couldn’t care less about her. And he definitely would have paid the bill every time out of obligation, despite being tight on cash. But he and Steve took turns. That evening, it happened to be Steve leaving crisp bills behind on the greasy table alongside the balled up wrappers before they left.

Another thing dates with Steve had in common with dates with chicks, was that they usually involved sucking face in the back of the car at some point too. Although with Harrington, he actually got a kick out of it, more than just the buzz that came with _anyone_ rubbing up against his junk. After, they dragged the ratty blanket out of the trunk, spread it out on the gritty turf around the edge of the quarry, under the trees and the stars. They lay quietly side by side a while, looking at the warm summer night sky, and feeling each other breathe. It turned out Steve may not have been as adverse to rolling around in the dirt as Billy had once suspected.

“Baby?” Steve's voice was low, his hand on Billy’s thigh, warm and heavy through the denim.

“Yeah?”

“Just checking you were still awake, asshole,” Steve said. "I bore you that much?"

“Mm,” Billy opened his eyes just in time to see Steve push himself up off the blanket, swing a leg over to sit on top of him. His shirt was striped white and blue, a smear of mayo near the hem. Billy wasn't going to tell him it was there. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Steve grinned and dipped down to kiss at Billy’s throat, hand sneaking down to the front of his jeans. 

Billy let out a pleased little sigh, arched up into his touch. “You pay for dinner just to get me to put out?”

Steve pulled back from where he was mouthing at Billy’s neck, still smiling. “Yeah,” he leant forward to kiss him properly. He tasted like ketchup.

 

5.

Billy was looking forward to his birthday, which was honestly a fucking miracle, considering his track record of shitty birthdays. Though really, it was less to do with it being his birthday, and more to do with the fact that he was going to see Steve that evening. But even the knowledge of how fucking pathetic that was didn't stop him from smiling.

“You busy later, Hargrove?” Steve said when they passed each other in the arcade parking lot. He was wearing shorts. It was distracting.

Billy made a non-committal noise. “I did have a date, but…” he made a show of shrugging, “might blow him off if something better comes along.”

“In that case,” Steve looked at him, all big eyes and quiet confidence, soft quirk to his mouth, at ease and in control, “I’d better make sure it’s perfect.”

“Jesus,” he shook his head to clear the daze Steve had sent him into. Billy knew he was smooth, was well aware he could charm pretty much any girl he wanted. But Steve was next level, when he could be bothered to try. And if Billy happened to think he was just as charming first thing in the morning, clumsy and sleep-rumpled and kind of a bitch, as he was when he made the effort and turned on the charm on purpose, then that was his business. “You take classes in this shit? Or is it just something you posh boys know from birth?”

“I’m not posh,” Steve said, with a seemingly careless little flick of his head to get his hair out of his eyes, “my dad just has a ton of money.”

Billy laughed, loud enough to draw attention from the people walking past them, and shoved Steve away. “See you later, Prince Charming.”

Later on, and the two of them were at Steve’s place. They could have done more or less anything, and Billy still would have considered it perfect. That’s just how it was, when it came to Steve. The lights were low – Harrington liked to keep them on pretty much all the time anyway, but he’d dimmed them to a warm, orangey glow for the occasion – and music quiet as they danced. Or that was the closest word for it; Billy didn’t really do dancing. He could, he just chose not to, and Steve was mostly awful at it, too uncoordinated for much more than shuffling across the carpet. Which is what they were doing. The remains of his birthday pizza sat on the coffee table, along with a handful of embarrassingly thoughtful gifts from Steve and the horribly cutesy heart covered gift wrap he’d thought would be funny to wrap them in. Dick. He'd gotten him roses. Billy held him close as they rocked gently together in the sort of stupid, graceless way kids did at high school dances, feeling Steve’s heartbeat through his chest. It was perfect. And to Billy's utter delight, it turned out one of the bathrooms in the Harrington house actually _did_ have gold plated faucets.

 

+1

If someone had told Billy last year that he’d be spending most of the holidays at the Byers’ house, he’d have laughed himself sick. He'd have laughed even harder, if they'd told him he'd also have a hopeless romantic for a boyfriend. But there he was, a few drinks in, warm and happy and all at ease and shit, watching Steve across the room with cartoon hearts in his eyes. And he decided it was time to remind his boyfriend that actually, he could do romance just as fuckin' well as he could. So he draped himself against a doorframe under a scrappy looking bit of mistletoe, and got to work.

“Harrington!” he called across the room to him.

“What?” Steve turned from where he’d been talking to Byers, pink faced and more than a little merry already.

Billy jerked his head, angled his hips just so. Winning smile in place and ready to win round one. “C’mere.”

Steve did so without a moment’s hesitation, and Billy found himself with an armful of warm and happy boyfriend. “Yeah?”

“You know you’re my favourite right?”

“Lucky me,” Steve said.

“Just wanted to remind you,” Billy said, and the smirk dropped off his face when it suddenly it felt a lot less like a game. “And to remind myself, I guess. Of how lucky I am to have you, gorgeous.”

Steve stared at him, all soft and big eyes, before leaning in to kiss him. It tasted of cheap beer and his own lip balm. Something synthetic and nondescriptly fruity that Maxine had been given for Christmas, then carefully left in his room because they both knew he'd get more use out of it than she would. And Billy was feeling pretty pleased with himself, being all charming, making Harrington all weak at the knees and shit. He still had it. He smiled into the kiss before they broke apart, foreheads together. 

“I’d do anything for you. Y’know that, right?” Steve said. “And I don’t mean fucking paying for dinner and flowers and all that shit, I mean anything. Real stuff.” 

Billy blinked. “Always gotta one up me with the romance, huh pretty boy.” Steve was old school, old Hollywood, old fashioned romance. And Billy was gone on him.

“It’s not on purpose,” Steve sniffed, ducked to kiss Billy’s nose.

“Like hell it’s not,” Billy snorted.

“Mm, maybe just a little," Steve said, smiling big and lopsided. "Can’t have you winning at everything, asshole.”


End file.
